


yet to come

by rathalos



Category: Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-29
Updated: 2019-11-29
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:01:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21608755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rathalos/pseuds/rathalos
Summary: “You’re the Champion of Cyrodiil,” he tries. “The citizens need reassurance. They need their hero!”“Ayirra refuses,” Ayirra says. “It is almost the New Life festival. She is going to go home and spend it with her son.”“And after that?” Ocato asks hopefully. “You’ll come back, won’t you?”“Not a chance.”
Relationships: Hero of Kvatch | Champion of Cyrodiil & Original Characters
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7
Collections: Holiday TES Fanfic Fest!





	yet to come

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [AeAyem](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AeAyem/pseuds/AeAyem) in the [Holiday_TES_Fanfic_Fest](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Holiday_TES_Fanfic_Fest) collection. 



> i really hope you like this ;w; i had a lot of fun writing!

High Chancellor Ocato knocks on Ayirra’s door just as she finishes gathering her belongings. She knows it is the Chancellor simply because he is the only one who knows which room she is staying in.

“Come in,” Ayirra says, tying off her traveling bag with a coarse rope.

“Thank you, Ayirra,” Ocato says, pushing the heavy door open and stepping inside delicately, as though afraid of her presence. “I just wanted to tell you that your armor—what Akatosh’s good name are you doing?”

“Packing,” Ayirra says gruffly.

“You’re leaving?” Ocato asks incredulously. “But why? Your Champion’s armor has just been forged, and we have ceremonies yet for you to attend.”

“Ayirra despises ceremony,” Ayirra responds simply, hoisting her pack over her shoulders. “Please move. She is leaving.”

“You can’t leave!” Ocato exclaims. “What about your loyalty do the Empire? Don’t you want to see it rebuilt? You could have a helping hand in that, you know.”

“Ayirra’s loyalty is to the Emperor, and he is dead,” she says. “Move.”

Ocato stands to the side, hands wavering in the air, looking as though he wants to reach toward her but is to afraid to actually do so.

“You’re the Champion of Cyrodiil,” he tries. “The citizens need reassurance. They need their hero!”

“Ayirra refuses,” Ayirra says. “It is almost the New Life festival. She is going to go home and spend it with her son.”

“And after that?” Ocato asks hopefully. “You’ll come back, won’t you?”

“Not a chance.”

*

Bravil greets Ayirra like an old friend. She knows these streets almost better than she knows herself, and though it’s been years since she last set foot here, there is still the indescribable sense of _home_ settling just beneath her breastbone.

Bairasha’s house is on the south side of Bravil, tucked close to the city gates. When Ayirra draws near she can hear the sounds of laughter and smell the sweet scents of dinner, no doubt cooked under Bairasha’s careful hand.

The closer she gets to the door, the lighter her steps become. She can only imagine her what little Za’jhan looks like now. It’s been two years since she last saw him—he would be fifteen years old now. And Bairasha, her oldest friend, her closest friend.

She knocks on the door, and the laughter stills.

Ayirra hears footsteps drawing close to the door, and the door swings open, and Bairasha stands there with a stunned expression on her face.

Ayirra is still, too, not sure of what to do with herself. Would a hug be welcomed? Does Bairasha still love her, still love her like so long ago even though Ayirra has been off roaming the country performing heroic deeds and all that garbage instead of staying right here where she belongs—

Bairasha opens her arms wide and Ayirra all but lunges forward into her embrace.

“You’re home,” Bairasha breathes, cradling the back of Ayirra’s head with one delicate hand. “Is everything done? Tell this one. And come inside, come see Za’jhan. He misses you so much.”

“It is over,” Ayirra says, extricating herself from Bairasha’s arms but still keeping hold of her hand. “At least, the part this one must play. She came home for New Life’s. She would spend it with family.”

“And after that?” Bairasha asks, punctuated by a shout for Za’jhan to come down.

“This one has been thinking,” Ayirra says. “Maybe she will—”

“Mama!”

There is Za’jhan, so much taller than she remembers. Two years have done so much. She lets go of Bairasha’s hand and opens her arms to Za’jhan, who flies at her, hugs her so hard the air is nearly forced from her lungs.

“Za’jhan, Za’jhan, you’ve grown so tall,” she murmurs, holding her son close.

“Not as tall as you,” he says, and sniffles. “Za’jhan missed you, Mama.”

“She knows, she knows. She misses you too,” Ayirra says. She pulls Za’jhan away from her and holds him at arm’s length, carefully surveying his face, memorizing every detail. “She came home just in time for New Life’s, didn’t she?”

“It’s tomorrow!” Za’jhan says, eyes lighting up with excitement. “Bairasha said there will be a festival in the town square! Do you want to go? We should go!”

“Your mother is tired,” Ayirra says, as Bairasha gently steers them toward her kitchen. “She has just traveled all the way from the Imperial City, ja’khajiit. You should go. Ayirra will stay home and enjoy her rest.”

“Well—well—let’s celebrate tonight, then! Just the three of us,” Za’jhan suggests.

Ayirra finds she can’t say no to Za’jhan. Even though she is tired, even though her feet ache from walking the last leg of her trip, the moment she looks at Za’jhan again her heart surges with so much love she can’t help but to agree.

“Yes!” Za’jhan cheers, jumping in place a little. “Wait. How will we celebrate?”

“How about let’s eat dinner first and then we can figure something out,” Bairasha suggests. “This one is sure Ayirra is hungry, and our food will get cold if we don’t eat.”

“Okay,” Za’jhan says, bounding over toward the table and pulling out a chair. “Mama, here. Sit down. Za’jhan forgot how tired you would be.”

“It’s all right, ja’khajiit. She is happy enough to be here with you,” Ayirra says.

Across the table, Bairasha smiles.

*

In the end, Ayirra is so tired that she nods off in one of Bairasha’s threadbare living room chairs, during the middle of a conversation in which Za’jhan had been regaling her about his “adventurous exploits” in and around Bravil, most of which had consisted of defending himself from mudcrabs.

She doesn’t miss the way he sometimes seems to lose track of himself, or the way his eyes often skip over her as if she were not there. Ayirra herself stays silent, unsure whether to tell him about her travels over the last two years or if he would rather not hear about it.

She can’t deny that somewhere, she went wrong. Maybe it was that she brought him along with her at all, subjected him to the horrors of Oblivion at such a young age—for that she curses herself, every single day—-or maybe leaving him with Bairasha at such a crucial age, thirteen. He looks at Bairasha like he used to look at her, adoration and love and hope melding themselves all into his expression.

Za’jhan seems happy to see her, of course. Maybe he still has some good memories of her, or maybe he doesn’t blame her for everything after all. But Ayirra cannot help but feel, in every gesture and look and word he gives her, that she may have been relegated to the role of an aunt or close family friend instead of his mother.

That is what she falls asleep to: Za’jhan’s voice petering down, Bairasha draping a cloth blanket over her, whispering to Za’jhan that he should get ready for bed too.

*

She wakes up slowly some hours later, coming out of the haze of a deep sleep little by little by little. She is alone in Bairasha’s tiny living room. It is past midnight, she thinks, for only the smallest hours of the morning are so peaceful. Her legs are cramped from sitting for so long, and her back pops so many times when she straightens up.

The fire is long gone out by now, probably doused by Bairasha or Za’jhan after they had both gone to bed, but Ayirra sends a spark toward it, drawing on her truly pitiful levels of magicka, and it flickers back to life. Small now, but it will be warm in time.

It is New Life.

Last year, Ayirra hadn’t been able to celebrate. She had been wading through blood and bodies in the Mythic Dawn’s shrine to Mehrunes Dagon. At that point in her life, she had been so tired and so done with everything, despairing at the long road ahead and wishing she could go back to simpler times that she had given up completely on keeping her cover intact.

It is laughable. Ayirra, former Listener to the Night Mother and leader of the Black Hand, blowing her cover.

She sighs and adds some more flame to her fire.

At the time she had not understood why Martin had been worried. Ayirra had done it all for him, a mother protecting her son, because he’d reminded her so strongly of Za’jhan. There is nothing she would not have done for him—indeed, she had waded through the fires of Oblivion and back at his request.

She regrets only two things: one, that she did not spend more time with Martin, and two, that she did not write home at all during that time.

But, she thinks, in time those hurts will ease away.

Now she is free to do as she pleases. Maybe she will stay in Bravil with Bairasha, try to make it work again, or she will go to back to Weynon Priory and help rebuild. She can fix things with Za’jhan now, make up for the times she had left him. She can properly mourn Martin now, and Baurus, and everyone else lost to her.

It is New Life, and Ayirra will start again.


End file.
